The Winds of Time
by a mountain of gideon's scones
Summary: In the past, they had summers of love and relaxation. In the past, they had Italy. In the past, there was Amelie and Myrnin. /AmelieMyrnin, set in Italy.


Mkay, so, this is an AmelieMyrnin, most of which is **set in the past** - in Italy - yet the beginning and end sections are set **pre-Glass Houses**. I'd probably hazard it as in about the 1960's, though it makes no bearing on the story.

I'd also like to dedicate this to Flying Penguinz, just because of reasons, and also to anyone who ships **AmelieMyrnin,** because whilst you're probably more sane than some shippers, you're not realising that it's SamAmelie, OTP.

* * *

Amelie steps through the portal and into the cluttered, disorganised lab that belongs to Myrnin, and immediately freezes: crying. She hears crying, a wailing, moaning sound of despair, and it's obvious who it is – Myrnin, her friend, the one who is supposed to be working towards an end goal of saving their race. Myrnin, the man suffering from the disease more so than any other vampire free to roam the streets of Morganville, the man who is involved in so much of Amelie's past, and hopefully, so much of her future.

"Myrnin?" she says his name softly, taking a step closer to where she suspects he lays and stopping herself: he's dangerous when he's like this, perfectly capable of destroying even her. She has to make sure that it's safe for her to approach before she does so, for fear that everything they have worked for will be ended. "Are you…alright?" it's a stupid question – he wouldn't be _crying_ if he was alright – but she finds herself asking it anyway, for fear that the crying may be due to something he can recall, rather than merely the decline into insanity that seems to be speeding up as the years pass.

He doesn't reply, and the lack of movement lures Amelie into a sense of security that he won't try and attack her – and she's right. As she approaches the man curled up into a foetal position on the dusty floor of his laboratory, he doesn't move to try and kill her, and he barely registers her existence.

"I…must…die," he whispers, his voice barely more than the vibrating of his lips, and is the most desolate Amelie has heard him in so long. As he senses Amelie dropping to her knees in front of him, he makes an effort to stop the crying, muttering, "I have done nothing good, or memorable in my existence. I have no happy memories, none. Only death and despair follows me."

Without quite realising what she's doing – or the potential implications of it if Myrnin happens to turn into a bloodthirsty monster – Amelie reaches over and pulls Myrnin into her lap, smoothing the curls down behind his head with one hand, the other stroking the outline of his face softly. "You're worth more than nothing, Myrnin," she informs him softly. "You've done many great things in your life, had many happy experiences…even before…do you recall Italy, and our adventures there?"

_The times when we danced through the ballroom, gliding effortlessly alongside the other, and not wanting to stop moving when the music stopped, so we moved into the garden and moved in-sync beneath the moon's light._

He doesn't reply, yet the sobbing seems to cease slightly, so Amelie takes this as an invitation to carry on, her own voice carrying the ghost of the memories that linger from their three months in the country of pasta and pizza. "We would ride along the gondolas in Venice, throwing bread at the ducks there, and—"

_—and we threw ourselves off bridges, keen to do something different and unique, looking like absolute fools most of the time, yet we didn't care. _

"And we would spend the rest of the night kissing under the trees, before you took me back to my – _our_ – castle, where we would do things that make me blush, looking back," she adds on the end, realising that with every memory she voices, another hundred return to the forefront of her mind, distracting her…like now…

_And then we would go to the parties and dance with royalty, always introducing ourselves as the Prince and Princess of Calais, for that was where I had conquered. And nobody questioned the ravishingly beautiful couple and whatever they desired, not even when it cost them their lives later in the evening_.

Silence.

It doesn't seem quite right, quite natural enough, and Amelie fears – something she does too much, in fairness – that it's merely the monster trying to lure her into thinking Myrnin is back. It's done that sometimes, and she barely escaped with her life last time; it cannot be allowed to happen again.

And so with the reserves of her strength as yet unaffected by the disease, Amelie places her fingertips on Myrnin's temples, a memory of a similar moment hitting her, yet she chooses to ignore it, murmuring, "I command you to recall Italy, Myrnin, to remember the time of fun and frivolity we had together, in a time before responsibility and true love was granted to us. Fight the beast inside of you, and _remember_!" she hisses the last word, trying to put as much emphasis on it as possible, because this is possibly the one thing she wants. Those days mean nothing to her now, not in a romantic sense, yet the feeling that they could help Myrnin _somehow_ in recollecting that he had happy days – ones outside of Ada's existence – allows her to hope that he may possibly have a chance to feel happiness, for a moment.

Myrnin relaxes in her embrace, and only then does she realise that he was struggling, trying to get away; now, with her influence overriding the disease, he's still, lost to a dream world of shared memories with Amelie, of their time in the country of good food and religion.

As he slips away further, Amelie allows herself to become lost in the same memories – the food, the company, the romance which soon came to be no more – and wonders if maybe, just maybe, she's thinking of the same things Myrnin is.

_~x~_

They arrive in Italy amidst a flurry of colour and excitement, something Amelie is keen to explain: "It's the festival for the new Pope's coming to rule the Christian Church," she tells Myrnin, who barely suppresses a yawn at this. "Myrnin! You are supposed to believe in the afterlife, and the fact that there is a God up there for us, you know that!" she admonishes him, yet it's with a humorous undertone to her voice. Looping her arm through his, Amelie knows that it's going to be a long battle to even get her – well, whatever he is to her – Myrnin to attend St Paul's with her, let alone to pray to a higher power.

Everywhere they turn in Rome, someone is admiring them, looking in amazement at their unnatural beauty and the manner in which they hold themselves – even Myrnin has learnt that Amelie demands he behave appropriately in public, after their disastrous trip together to Edinburgh – and it's what feeds Amelie; when she catches someone looking at her, a smile graces her lips, because this is what she _wants_. She wants to be noticed, to be given the attention that she deserves, and only Myrnin's presence keeps her grounded.

"You're beautiful," he tells her honestly between kisses, his hands locked into her hair as they stand in the shadows of their castle. "But don't let it go to your head; you're going to end up like Ysandre one day, someone unable to do anything but admire herself. And you're always going to be more than that."

Amelie's not sure if she can believe him, if she can accept that she's more than just a pretty face, but he's so convincing as he lays kisses along her neck, his lips brushing her skin in a tantalising manner, that she finds herself just agreeing so they can be together for the night.

(She can always disagree with him in the morning.)

**.**

Being the new jewels in Rome for the summer – for now, at least – Amelie and Myrnin are invited to all of the parties, including the prestigious one held at the colosseum by the newest political ruler of this area; neither of them concern themselves with becoming acquainted with the Duke and Duchess, because they'll probably be replaced within the next year. Italy has always been a contest for power hungry humans, ones who often end up being food for equally idiotic vampires, and Amelie always watches from the sidelines of the blood covered fields to discover who will try and charm her next.

"Oh, don't you look _dashing_," someone comments to Amelie as she becomes separated from Myrnin for a few moments, her partner on the other side of the gardens with his dinner, and she can't help but smile. Blushing has become somewhat easier of late, possibly due to her increased intake of blood, and colour floods her cheeks at the person's comment.

"Thank you, Sir…?" she trails off, unsure of her flatterer's surname, and takes a step backwards. Here, she waits for the inevitable invitation to dance.

It arrives within seconds, one she graciously accepts, and she begins to dance around the open-air ballroom with Sir Thomas Drake, wondering if he is too prominent to kill – for he looks so _divine_ – and so whether a bite may be all she can have.

They begin to converse about uninteresting things, the usual topics of conversation Amelie reserves for humans, for she does all her real talking with Myrnin; he knows what she likes to do on a rainy evening, which book is her favourite, and why she cannot stand the colour peach with her complexion. The man has been her friend for so long, she isn't quite sure when they moved past that stage to the intimacy they now share – surely though, she reflects, it must have been after the first kiss on their journey to Brussels – but she knows that when this fun is over, she'll have her friend back.

(They always needed to experiment together, to see if they would work long term, and that's all they're doing…really.)

On the far side of the gardens, she can see Myrnin approaching the main party, a glint in his eyes that suggests to Amelie that he's fed, and that he knows exactly what she's done to pass the time. She even considers there to be a jealous streak behind the brightness in his eyes, and then considers if she would have those feelings if he happened to kiss another woman.

She thinks she would.

"If you will excuse me, I must return to my husband; thank you for the entertainment," is her hasty parting statement to Sir Drake, who doesn't have the chance to say a word, for Amelie has already left his side.

She moves through the throngs of people dancing, their heartbeats enticing her to their blood almost to the point that she desires to rip into one of their necks right there – yet she resists it. Myrnin's eyes are on her the whole time, and if she lost her control in a way she chastises him for, she would never be able to comment again for fear of being accused of hypocrisy.

As she approaches Myrnin, the humorous edge to his eyes disappears, leaving behind only a flat anger…and jealousy. "Who was that?" he asks Amelie, his tone barely cordial as he takes her arm. Amelie's dress flutters slightly in the gentle breeze, causing it almost to lift at the front, and Myrnin places a hand on her hip to hold down the skirt, yet it feels forced.

_He's angry with me_, she thinks, _he's jealous of Thomas Drake_. She doesn't allow herself to think of how she wants this, to have Myrnin so in love with her that he cannot stand to see her with another (handsome) man, because then she would be forced to consider the possibility of her feelings if she caught him with a woman.

They stop in the shadows of one of the large topiary bushes, one that looks slightly like the mistress of the house, and immediately, Myrnin forces her back into it, his hands at her waist. "Why?" he whispers into her ear, agony ripping through the syllable. "Why would you _do_ that; was it to make me jealous? If that was your goal, it has worked, you _damned_ woman, and three are dead because of it."

In the distance, Amelie can hear the sounds of human panic: someone has discovered the body – bod_ies_? – and screaming replaces the sound of the violins playing. Myrnin's present has been unveiled early. "Oh, Myrnin, why would I need to make you jealous?" she replies, adding a little unnecessary humour to her tone. "I already have you; what else do I have to do? You have given me _everything_." She giggles slightly as she finishes, knowing that this is just enough to irritate him, and her hands move to his lapels.

Myrnin growls in her ear, his fangs pressing against the skin there, and he snarls, "I could kill you, Amelie. You know I can; you have allowed me to get too close to you, and I could destroy you right here, right now."

She shrugs, moving her hands to his head and forcing him to face her; their eyes lock into the other's, and she laughs once again, this time without amusement. "I would kill you first, never forget that," she informs him. "And yet now we have argued, are you not going to kiss me?"

(Amelie knows that they have the best intimate relationship when they're angry with the other.)

They're kissing and his hands are roaming over her body, ripping the sleek fabric the dress is made of, whilst Myrnin's coat is in shreds on the ground. Humans are coming, running to try and find them – because who else has left the party between the deaths and now? – and yet neither of them move, continuing their exploration of the other in the shadows.

Only when their opponents are nearly at their location do they move like the wind, their laughter simultaneous, as though they hadn't argued about Amelie's actions.

"We need to bring forward our trip to Venice," Amelie murmurs as she lays in Myrnin's arms in her castle which no longer feels like a home. "After all, I do not feel as though being staked would be productive for my plans to conquer the world, would it?"

Myrnin agrees.

**.**

Gone is the tense atmosphere which ruled their final days in Rome; when they arrive in the city with the canal boats and waterways, all they desire is fun and freedom, things they've sorely lacked in Rome.

"Let's jump from the Rialto Bridge," Myrnin suggests as the sun goes down on their fourth night in Venice, shortly after their nourishment for the night. "It shall be _fun_, Amelie, something we have never done before."

"Something we will never do again," Amelie adds on the end, realising that her words will be construed by Myrnin to suggest that she wants to do this – she doesn't – but she will because he came with her in Rome, so she must do something for him now, true? "Very well, allow me to change from my—_Myrnin! _Where are we going?"

He pulls her along by the arm, running along the side of the canal from their waterfront property – though, in fairness, most of Venice's buildings line the canals – and immediately, Amelie knows Myrnin is taking her to the bridge now.

"So you cannot change your mind," Myrnin says in explanation, almost as though he could tell what she was thinking, as he half turns back to look at Amelie. "You are usually so contrary; I did not want you to change dresses and decide midway through that you would not jump." He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and Amelie knows an inappropriate comment is about to follow. "And there is the added bonus that when wet, this dress _ought_ to cling to rather…_attractive_ parts of your physique…and it is most beautiful when it is removed, also."

She doesn't deign to give this a response, simply moves faster towards the river, unable to contain her glee at doing something so reckless and different, something she's never done before and will never do again.

Much like most of this trip to Italy, she reflects.

**.**

The rest of their trip is spent in the same manner: each evening they emerge from their home, feed, and pass the night in leisurely pursuits – they range from being entertained by the Duke of Venice, to winning all the money in a local gambling bar to then kill the three men and women in there – and when the summer ends, Amelie doesn't want it to.

"What do we do?" she whispers as they watch the sun rise on the day before they're due to return to Paris. "We could stay, could we not? There could be more time just for us, to enjoy ourselves and to be with one another and experience so many more things we have yet to do." she finds herself almost pleading Myrnin to stay, as though she needs his permission to do such a thing, but he shakes his head.

"Life must resume, Amelie," he tells her softly, wrapping his arm around her waist in a movement so familiar that it seems unnatural _not_ to do it. "And we must resume our friendship; you know as well as I that this was merely a holiday romance, one to fulfil the desires we both felt for one another; it has been beautiful, and you have set a standard for all women after you…as I have for you, I hope. Yet you must return to being a ruthless ruler, and I must be your pet alchemist, and one knows that one must not mix business with pleasure."

She nods. "I would have said the same thing in perhaps _slightly_ more embellished a style when we returned to our home, Myrnin, yet you have the sentiment exactly," she agrees, there being no awkward end-of-courtship moment that she feared, because whilst their love is most ardent, it is much more inclined to favour the friendship route than the romance path of life. "Yet we must remain married until we find respective partners, or until the world changes so a single woman can live alone. I trust that you do not find me repulsive, so we can continue this arrangement."

Myrnin's fingers trace the outline of Amelie's cheeks softly, barely a whisper on her skin. "You are ravishing, my dear; any woman who finds a place in my heart must be equally so, and have the ability to love alchemy as I do…otherwise, I would ask to marry you now and you would never leave my side again. If only the sciences as I do…" he trails off, and Amelie laughs softly, twisting out of his embrace.

"We have one more night; let us use it well," she says with a smile. "There are two gondolas down there, and two oars: let us race. And the winner may have the bragging rights for the next ten years."

Myrnin smiles and nods in agreement, "and then, when we return here, we can spend the night together one last time, as a memoir of our time in Italy."

(Amelie doesn't contest this idea.)

_~x~_

Myrnin's eyes snap open, and immediately, Amelie is aware that he's completely lucid; his eyes are lacking the manic edge the disease brings, and his thought processing seems clear. "Good afternoon, Myrnin," she manages to say in her usual, semi-brisk tone, shuffling to place a nearby cushion under his head before she moves to her feet. "I see you are fine after your nap."

His brow furrows as he sits up. "I dreamed…without the influence of the disease, I dreamed." He sounds as confused as his facial expression suggests he is, and Amelie almost wants to tell him that she made him dream of Italy. "Ah, never mind. I am lucid, which is a rare occurrence; I must use this time to work on the disease's cure."

Myrnin shuffles to his feet, and soon towers over Amelie once again, and she looks up into his face. "No," is her reply, "you work far too hard. Go see Ada, your love. Remember why you love her and why you fight to return to her. You, of all people, deserve the chance to be with your true _amour_."

Before Myrnin can say another word, Amelie is moving away from him, back towards the door through which she entered the laboratory, the memories of Italy in her mind—

—yet that is where they shall stay; they are recollections of the past she shared with Myrnin, a time of freedom and no limitations – and above all, no true love.

(Today, she has Samuel…or the memories of _his_ touch, at least.)

* * *

The characterisations of Amelie & Myrnin in Italy are how I perceive them to be pre-Morganville.

I'd appreciate it if you reviewed, and did so if you favourite, also.


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